Diane Vallere - Style and Error 01 - Designer Dirty Laundry

by Diane Vallere

  Patrick had gone to great lengths to keep these notes from public viewing, or any viewing for that matter. His opinion of each designer was obvious, but that wasn’t what struck me. I already knew he and Maries were the judges, and so did everyone else. Of course there was going to be criticism.

  The real question was why had Nick been disqualified? And what was he doing in the competition to begin with?

  I looked over Patrick’s notes one more time. If what I thought was right, one of these people had a lot to gain if they knew they weren’t going to win the competition. I had to find them. Because if one of these designers had found the money, they were going to be awfully hard to find. And hiding Patrick’s body for a couple of days would have given them a head start before the police figured out what they did and started looking for them.

  I pushed stacks of unopened mail and newspapers around the table until I found the envelope Maries had dropped off. Inside were profiles on each of the designers. Four finalists, and a thick sheaf of papers for those who hadn’t moved to the final round. I looked at the top application on the larger pile. The upper right corner was stamped with a grid. Dates and notations had been filled in: Application fee processed. Collection sketches received. Feedback supplied with thank you for entering. Next I looked at the pile of finalists. Nick’s application was on top. The same grid was stamped in the same place. Application fee processed. Collection sketches received. Finalists notified. I flipped past Nick’s page to Michael’s. Application fee waived. Collection sketches received. Notified. A small, hand-drawn smiley face was next to the last word.

  So Michael hadn’t paid his entry fees. I didn’t know what to make of that. Had his position as Patrick’s assistant earned him a free pass? And had that free pass included finalist status?

  I flipped through the pages. There had to be something in there someone would kill for, but I couldn’t help wondering, seriously, if I was in the middle of a gigantic hoax that had gone awry. This was fashion. Outside of Gianni Versace, the words “homicide” and “high style” didn’t belong in the same sentence. It was a stretch to think someone whose name was in this file had killed to keep it from being seen.

  I set the pages on the table and looked back at the screen. If I was looking at what Patrick had wanted me to see, then the message was lost on me. I clicked around on a few different cells, then discovered a hidden tab. I unhid it and stared at a new page of information.

  Rucci

  Cavalli

  Gucci

  Gabbana

  Missoni

  Armani

  Pucci

  Piana

  Miuccia

  Donatella

  It didn’t take much more than a passing knowledge of fashion to recognize the names of famous Italian designers, some living, some not. Some working, some not. But what did they have to do with Patrick, why were they in a protected file on his computer? The more I discovered, the less I knew. It was a frustrating place to be.

  I called Eddie and asked him to bring me food. I returned to the computer and clicked on cells at random. There had to be something else, something I was missing. Twenty minutes later, Eddie pounded on the door. I closed the file and shut down the computer, then spent a couple of minutes moving the sofa away from the front door. Eddie leaned in and looked around the interior before entering. One hand held a Tradava shopping bag, the other carried a stack of white Styrofoam takeout containers. He set the Tradava bag on the sofa.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened so far today.”

  “You already know?” he asked. “You seem so calm.”

  “Calm? I’m freaking out. After I left you, I came home. Somebody had broken into my house. And Nick came over with the laptop—well, the laptop bag—he had it the whole time. He thought it was mine, and he took it for safe keeping.”

  “Dude,” Eddie started, but the amount of information I had to share was in direct relation to the amount of caffeine I’d had, leaving him no opening to the conversation.

  “So, I called the cops to report the break-in, and the homicide detective came over. What is this, Chinese?” I asked, taking the Styrofoam containers from him and moving into the kitchen. He remained in the living room. “Can you imagine if I was here last night instead of Tradava? Somebody was here, at my house.”

  “Dude, sit down and be quiet for a second.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” I pulled an eggroll from one of the containers and bit into it. “Thanks for bringing this. I’ll make it up to you, I promise, after I figure this thing out.”

  “I think you should move on.”

  There was something about how he said that last part that caught my attention. I set the eggroll in the lid of the Styrofoam container and leaned back.

  “Move on? You want me to move on?” I said calmly. He didn’t speak, which was smart on his part because I wasn’t done. “I moved here under the illusion that Tradava was going to be my source of income. Now my boss has been murdered, I’m a suspect, and I’m going to lose the house if I can’t prove to the mortgage company that I have a job. Yesterday somebody broke a window and flooded my basement. I used to live in an apartment overlooking, well, overlooking a bunch of other apartment buildings, but the windows were made of glass. Right now my window is made of duct tape. Why does everyone keep telling me to move on?”

  He looked down at his hands, completely avoiding eye contact. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Dude, the detective was back at the store. He knows Patrick was murdered and now he thinks Tradava was the crime scene. Somebody tipped him off that you went there last night and his team found your fingerprints all over.”

  I balled up a paper towel and threw it at the trash can. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor by a muddy footprint. Logan swatted it under the oven.

  “That’s it, right? I mean, enough with the bad news already. That’s all there is. Right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What else could possibly have happened?”

  “They found an EMT jacket stuffed in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet in your office.”

  Chapter 15

  “I looked in that drawer yesterday morning. It was empty,” I said. Was that really only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime ago.

  He pulled a newspaper clipping from a cargo pocket and held it out. “You need to start being careful. If that drawer was empty, then that jacket was planted. Recently. It doesn’t look good for you.”

  I took the clipping and scanned the story. Fashion Director Murdered was the headline. Lines like, “suspicious characters in the store on the morning of the murder,” “overwhelming class evidence,” and “closing in on a suspect” gave me chills.

  “Even if you’re not guilty, you seem to keep coming close to the killer. Sooner or later the cops are going to find the actual murderer. Until then you have to be careful. Okay?” When I didn’t answer him immediately, he spoke again. “I brought you a one month supply of the Style Section to catch you up on the fashion world, since you’re supposed to be some kind of expert.” I ignored his attempt at humor. He pulled a mini bottle of wine out of the bottom of the bag. “I don’t want to encourage you to drink alone in your state, but this might help you forget what happened.”

  “But it did happen, Eddie. No amount of pretending can make it go away.”

  “Dude,” he said quietly.

  I sat back, no longer hungry. By telling the detective about the vandalism, I’d told him I wasn’t home last night. Worse, someone else knew I wasn’t home last night. The someone who had left Patrick’s body in a dumpster. The someone who had vandalized my window. The someone who was out to frame me.

  “You need this?” Eddie asked, holding out a receipt.

  “For what? Dinner? Just tell me what it cost and I’ll give you the money.”

  “No, the food’s on me. This was on your floor.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “Fabric store,” he said with a full mouth afte
r having bit into an eggroll. Logan hopped up on the table and I picked him up and put him back on the floor. He yowled and walked away. “Did you buy out the store? Is your strategy to wipe out the inventory, cut off the murderer’s supply?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How expensive is that stuff anyway?” He pushed the receipt toward me with his elbow.

  I picked it up and smoothed it out under my palm. The receipt was from Pins & Needles. It was damp and smudged with mud.

  “Seventy-four dollars of seam binding.” I flattened it out with the side of my hand. “I must have tracked this in from behind the house.” I set the piece of paper on the table next to the Moo Goo Gai Pan.

  Eddie finished off another eggroll and stood. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Sure. As long as the sofa’s up against the front door, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Every hour on the hour. I’ll give you until 11:00 to sleep in.”

  “Dude,” I replied.

  After Eddie left, I examined the receipt he’d found on the floor. Someone who had been in my backyard had spent seventy dollars on seam binding. I suspected the talkative store manager at Pins & Needles would remember such a sale. I located the business card I’d swiped from Patrick’s Rolodex and called the store.

  “Thank you for calling Pins and Needles. This is Florence,” said a friendly voice.

  “Hi, Florence, I was in the store earlier today, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about seam binding?”

  “Who are you?” she said, her voice suddenly flat.

  “Samantha Kidd.”

  “No! What are you doing? No!”

  “Excuse me? Florence?”

  “Get away from me!”

  “I—Do you know who I am?”

  “I’m going to call the cops if you don’t leave!”

  “Don’t call the cops! Wait—leave where? I’m at home. What’s going on?”

  My ear filled with several muffled sounds, then a clunk. “Florence?” I said. There was no response. “Are you there? Florence!” The only thing I heard was more clunking. I disconnected and redialed the number. Busy signal. I tried three more times with the same result.

  I dialed information and asked her to ring the number. After informing me of the related charges for such a service, she placed me on hold. Within five seconds she was back, confirming my suspicions. The phone was off the hook. By now I realized why the brief conversation with Florence sounded off. She hadn’t been talking to me.

  I hung up then started to dial 911. I stopped before the second one. What if I was wrong? This would be my third 911 call in less than a week. I pulled on the navy blue Wellies, grabbed my handbag, and ran to the car. Traffic on the highway was light enough to get me to Pins & Needles in a matter of minutes. I pulled into the vacant lot and parked slightly off center between a couple of lines painted on the macadam. I ran to the front door and pulled on the handle. The door was locked and the store was dark.

  I slapped my palm on the front door aggressively. “Florence! Florence! Can you hear me? Are you in there?” I yelled. I pressed my ear up to the door of the shop. The only sound I heard was a faint tinkling of chimes.

  Chimes. Like the kind I’d heard earlier over the back door.

  I raced around the back of the store. Red taillights glowed at the edge of the parking lot, then disappeared onto Penn Avenue. It was too far away for me to make out necessary details and I wasted no time trying. I yanked the door open and ran inside.

  “Florence? Florence! Are you in here? Are you okay?”

  It took a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. As quickly as I could, I moved through the store with my hands in front of me. A body jumped out at me and I screamed. It fell over and I tripped. It was one of the bust form dummies draped in fabric. I kicked it out of the way and stood back up. Slower, I moved to the cutting island where Florence had been earlier that day. I put my hands on the counter and made out the appearance of the phone base. I reached across the counter and found the curly cord, then pulled it toward me until I had the receiver in my hand. I set it back in the cradle.

  Movement from the ground startled me. I peeked over the counter. A roll of black and white pinstriped gabardine rolled across the floor. I looked in the direction from where it had come. On the floor, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, sat Florence.

  “It’s okay now. I’m here to help you,” I said.

  I crawled over the counter and knelt down on the floor. First I pulled a wad of fabric from her mouth, then pulled the blindfold from her eyes. She looked scared at first. “I’m not going to hurt you. I was on the phone when whoever did this to you did this to you.”

  “Scissors,” she whispered, and held up her wrists. I froze in place when I saw the tight lilac seam binding biting into her flesh. “In the drawer by the register.”

  I cut through the cords on her wrists and ankles. Indentations remained long after the fabric strips fell to the floor. “Can I get you anything?”

  “You can hand me the phone. I’m calling the police.”

  “The police—” I started to say, then stopped. If Florence called the police, she could tell them she was on the phone with me when she was attacked. I shifted to all fours and felt around for the cordless phone.

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “I’ll tell them who attacked me.”

  “You know who it was?”

  She leaned to the left and reached under the counter. “Whoever it was dropped this.” She held out a business card. I leaned close so my eyes could make out the details. Sure enough, I recognized it. It was one of Patrick’s cards, only Patrick’s name had been crossed out.

  Unfortunately for me, my name was written in its place.

  Chapter 16

  “Florence, that’s me. That’s my name. I’m Samantha Kidd, but I didn’t do this to you.”

  “Hand me that phone, young lady.”

  I handed her the phone and watched her dial 911. I stood up and looked around the store. I knew I wasn’t going to stick around to hang with Detective Loncar, but I wanted to make sure she was safe. Aside from the army of bust forms that guarded the store, we were alone.

  “This is Florence Ingram. I am at Pins & Needles on Penn Avenue. Someone came into my store and threatened me and tied me up. Please send a police car.” She stopped talking for a moment. I could hear the other person talking but like a teacher in a Peanuts special, the words were indecipherable. I waited, not sure if I should stay or go. “A nice young woman, Samantha Kidd, came in to help me. Yes, she’s still here with me. Yes, I’ll do that.” She hung up the phone.

  “Samantha, why don’t you have a seat with me? The police will be here shortly and it seems they’d like to talk to you.”

  I’m sure they would. “I can’t stay. I don’t know who did this to you, but I promise I’ll find out.”

  “The police specifically asked for me to make sure you stayed with me.”

  “I know—” I stopped. Avoiding Detective Loncar was high on my priority list but not as high as abandoning an innocent woman who had been attacked. Besides, I reasoned internally, if I stuck around, I might be able to learn something from her statement.

  I helped Florence into a folding metal chair and filled a Dixie cup with water for her, then settled in next to a bolt of green paisley and waited. Someone had taken things up a notch.

  Eleven minutes later swirling blue and red lights illuminated the windows of Pins & Needles. Florence tried to stand, but I could tell she was still shaking. “I’ll let them in,” I said.

  I braced myself for whatever Detective Loncar was going to say to me when I opened the door, but he wasn’t one of the two uniformed men in front of me.

  They both looked younger than I would have expected police officers to look but that might have been based on my recent interactions with the detective. One was about half a head taller than the
other, with a smattering of freckles across his face. The other was Mexican, with dark curly hair and the beginning of a mustache.

  “You called 911?” asked Mustache.

  “Florence, the owner did. She’s waiting inside.” I led the two uniformed officers to the center cutting table. Florence wasn’t there. I looked around in the darkness, not sure where she’d gone, until suddenly the store was bathed in light. The sudden change made me shut my eyes, then blink rapidly until my sight adjusted. Florence appeared from a door in the back of the store.

  “Hello officers, I’m the one who called you, Florence Ingram. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I don’t like sitting around my store in the dark.”

  “Ms. Ingram, can you tell us what happened here?” asked Mustache.

  I stood off to the side while Florence described the attack. I wanted to hear her statement, to see if anything stood out, but the officer blocked us and kept his voice low. I picked up only the basic facts: she had been straightening the store before closing when the phone rang. After answering the phone, the lights went out. Someone jumped in front of her, shoved a wad of cotton batting in her mouth, and bound her wrists with seam binding.

  “Were you here with Ms. Ingram?” asked Freckles.

  “No, I’m the one who was on the phone. I thought she was talking to me when she was really talking to the person attacking her.”

  “So you heard her being attacked?”

  “I heard her asking what someone wanted. I thought she was talking to me.”